Our Own Private Downton Abbey

Are we ready for the new season of “Downton Abbey,” you ask? Well, here at Ranch House, we have been polishing the stainless steel and Swiffering around the Ikea heirlooms since Boxing Day.

So much has happened here since the end of last season. So much and yet also so little. In many ways, life at Ranch House continues as it always has, with the leisure class pursuing leisurely activities. In one room, you might find my young son and heir playing with model cars handcrafted for him in far-off China and shipped all the way to Los Angeles at what must surely be vast expense. Nothing but the best for my little boy!

In another room, you might come across my younger daughter watching television, just like her mother and grandmother before her. Often, in fact, they’ll all be watching it together. What are they watching? Well, that would be up to Her Ladyship, the Countess. Ranch House is by no means a democracy (hideous word!). My wife sees it as her primary responsibility in life to find a suitable match for our daughter, especially when it comes to choosing television programming.

Speaking of suitable matches, my eldest daughter, Lady Sienna, is now eighteen and ready to be married and to start a household of her own. We have been scouring Debrett’s and the Almanach de Gotha and prepared lists for her of potential beaux whose rank either equals or, in certain rare cases, exceeds our own and whose family fortunes have not been depleted over the generations. I don’t mind saying that a husband with a decent income would not be unwelcome, if only to assist us with the upkeep of our magnificent home. A home, I might add, in which he will always be reasonably welcome. I’m not saying he should work. No, no, never that! A mere three or four hundred thousand a year from the Funds or in rents from his own estates will be quite enough for Sienna’s modest needs, as well as our own.

Sienna amuses us by looking up our proposed mates on her Facebook and then declaring them all “incredibly weird,” “totally fugly,” or “you must be out of your mind!” I dote on her, I confess, and indulge her girlish pique. Still, duty bids me remind her that she will not be eighteen forever and must give some thought to her future. I would not have her end up like the many old maids in our vicinity who have no one for company and companionship save eighty-four rescue dogs and an African gray parrot.

For my part, I have my political role to play: reading the papers, watching the broadcasts, voting from time to time if circumstances warrant, and debating the great issues of our day with my peers. As a gentleman farmer, I must see that the estate is properly managed and that our tenantry is both content and productive. Currently, our only tenant is a neighbor who parks his Subaru in our driveway now and then, but when others come we will be ready. And, as a sportsman, I must find the time to follow the myriad sporting events that seem to take place almost every day. I confess that not every season captures my fancy to the same degree. Currently, we are in the midst of grouse-hunting/football season, one of my favorites. But after midwinter it will be naught but deer-stalking/basketball, which I find a bit of a trial.

But I digress.

Although my wife and I try to model our conduct on that of Lord and Lady Grantham, we have no direct analogues for many of the show’s other characters and so must improvise, as one does when faced with hardship. For example, the role of the Dowager Countess, who interjects cutting remarks at the most inopportune moments, has been undertaken by our younger ones. There are times when, if I close my eyes, I can almost imagine that it is Dame Maggie Smith herself sitting at our dinner table and saying, “I don’ wanna eat it! It’s ’scusting!,” instead of one of our own moppets.

So that is how the family has been occupying itself since last you saw us. There are tasks we must delegate, of course. The running of so grand a home as Ranch House is more than one person, or even a dozen people, could manage on their own. Furthermore, it simply isn’t appropriate that a landowner like myself should personally exterminate the rats in the garage or install a new garbage disposal. What would people say? And besides, we all remember what happened when I tried it the first time.

As some have pointed out, Ranch House does not have a “downstairs” per se (nor, for that matter, does it technically have an “upstairs”). Still, that has not prevented our servants from forming a tight-knit community of their own, complete with intrigue, petty squabbles, and romance. There is Angelo, the stout lad who delivers our newspaper, and his friendly rivalry with Mr. Lin, his competitor in the mail-delivery trade. And I’ve noticed Derek, our first footman, who mows the lawn every other week, stealing lovelorn glances at Melody, our nanny (or “babysitter,” as she prefers to be called), as she bathes in the sun whilst the children frolic out-of-doors. In due course, I’m sure Derek will come to ask my blessing to propose marriage to Melody. I shall not withhold it, though I fear she is carrying a torch for another, one Justin Bieber, whose photograph I have seen her caress. Perhaps he is off at war, in which case she is to be commended for staying true to him.

There is no doubt, though, that the class distinctions that once formed an insuperable barrier are being slowly eroded. Why, there are times when my man of business, Mr. Citimortgage, acts as though he owns the place!

As I frequently tell visitors, the Kimballs have lived at Ranch House for more than five hundred years, although I’m not getting quite as much traction with that as I’d like. And, as long as we remain here, the Countess and I will continue to strive in our calm and confident manner to lead our household, our family, and our community through both our deeds and our words. No matter what happens beyond our well-manicured carport, at Ranch House the claret will always be decanted, the newspapers will always be ironed, and the women will withdraw after dinner, leaving the men, or, most of the time, man, to contemplate the glory of bygone days while clearing his nostrils of dried effluvium until 9 P.M. rolls around, when we will gather again to watch “Downton Abbey.” ♦